Saturday! Plenty of self-indulgence, not much housework.
Read loads. This was great because it's my favourite thing to do.
Offline reading: a handful of pages of a feminist critique of the works of Sylvia Plath. Soon cast aside for 231 pages of a 339 page book about the Zodiac Killer (which will probably be finished tonight).
Online highlights:
The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered (Clive James: much missed)
Imaginary gin and fictitious chips got me through Friday (Grace Dent has basically got me through this whole coronavirus crisis)
We Are All Sodomites (that'll garner some clicks)
How To Draw Anything (by Moose Allain, therefore wonderful)
Pussy Riot has a shop! (I want an Eat The Rich hoodie)
So does Gail Brodholt. Came across this artist's beautiful work on Twitter today and had to buy her book.
Had another go on Blob Opera because why not?
Perused the very entertaining timeline of Twitter maestro Ian Martin and turned up this beauty:
This perfectly elucidates why I am reluctant to leave my flat, living as I do on the edge of a popular park. I'm not a state pensioner but I do value my life and indeed these meaty, gasping, brick-faced arseholes always do come far too close.
Britain avoids talking about Covid-19 deaths. That's a mistake.
Tell us a joke (my favourite: A vicar, a priest and a rabbit walk into a blood bank. The rabbit says “I think I might be a type O”.)
And the Saturday column of Tim Dowling, for whom Saturdays were invented.
Also ended up watching The Day Britain Stopped:
Can't remember how I came across it now.
(Best guess: Twitter?)
It was quite grim. And there was an awful lot of acting in it. I hate it when you can tell people are acting - trying so hard to be natural it looks totally fake. Or is that just an Aspie thing? Whatever: it's why I find it hard to watch much TV drama.
Anyway, acting aside, I enjoyed it.
(You could also tell it was fake because the politician in it expressed normal human emotions.)
Didn't go out. Barely got out of bed.
Photo of the day: Life Is Elsewhere.
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